


The Wingbeats That Saved Malcolm Tucker

by Blackpenny



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 23:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4583958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackpenny/pseuds/Blackpenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that the single beat of a butterfly’s wing can cause a hurricane halfway round the world. If this is true, then surely there were times when Malcolm Tucker’s life could have turned away from disaster. It wasn’t inevitable that he end his political career on the steps of a police station, was it? Here are a few possibilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shopping with Mam

It was Isobel Tucker’s decision to forego an after-church lunch date with her friends Betty and Margery that made all the difference. She had a bit of a headache, so she went home instead and thus missed catching Betty’s grandson’s cold. A cold is nothing to shrug off when a person is 76, especially when that person is prone to bronchitis.

But Isobel is in good health when she watches the news of her son’s resignation. She calls and informs him that she’s coming to London. No, she will not wait until Malcolm visits at Christmas. It’s been a long time since she’s been down and she will brook no argument. The only concession she allows is that Malcolm will pay for the ticket (Super Voyager, first class). Within 24 hours Malcolm’s younger sister Susan is helping their mother to the station and exacting a promise that she will call with news of Malcolm as soon as possible. Sue would love to visit her big brother, but she has a young child and a full-time job.

Malcolm meets his mother at Euston and she has to work to conceal her shock at his appearance. He’s aged five years in the last 12 months. He’s pale as chalk and has lost even more weight. Is he not eating at all? She hugs him tightly and makes bright small talk about the journey (so comfortable!), Sue, the kids, and the weather. 

The house is spotless, as usual and there are flowers in the kitchen and the spare bedroom. The refrigerator is full of food, including many of her favorites. He must have gone shopping that very morning.

“I thought I’d cook dinner tonight,” says Malcolm. “I know you want to see London a bit…”

“Dinner in would be lovely!” Isobel squeezes his arm. “Maybe we could have lasagna, with a nice salad. You make such good lasagna.”

“Sure, yeah. I’ll make that if you make some of your rolls. I have everything ready.”

They work on opposite sides of the kitchen. This one room is half the size of the flat they all shared when Malcolm was a boy. She’s proud of how far he’s come with his brains and hard work and tells him so.

Malcolm looks stricken. “No cause to be proud, Mam.” Without looking her in the face he tells how he was blindsided by Steven Fleming. His voice is calm and controlled and his knife clicks steadily on the board as he dices the onions, but Isobel can feel the rage and humiliation emanating from him.

Isobel puts the rolls above the pilot light in the lower gas oven to rise. (Two ovens for a single man. Imagine!) She places her hand on her son’s bony back and gives him a gentle push, just enough to let him know what’s coming.

“You’re well out of it,” she tells him. He starts to argue but she insists on having ten uninterrupted minutes to say her peace. “And it won’t be the first during this visit, my dear.”

Isobel takes a deep breath and bluntly tells her son that he looks dreadful, as bad and Mrs. Isley’s boy did when he came out of rehab. He may love his job but it surely doesn’t love him. When was the last time he felt proud of what he was doing? Does he even remember the idealism that pushed him into politics?

Malcolm concedes every point. Then he tells her about his embarrassing visit to the BBC and the even worse options his agent has brought up since then.

“I just don’t know, Mam. The thought of interviewing some tw-… idiot about the latest diet book makes me want to tie weights on my ankles and jump in the Thames, and that’s the best option so far.”

“You’re like your dad that way. He couldn’t slow down either.”

“Yeah, but as I recall Dad was always in demand, right? If the boats were slow, he did a bit of carpentry. Didn’t he even do some electrical work?”

“And painting. And even a bit of plumbing. He was a talented man, Malcolm. So are you! What about your writing?” Isobel is struck by a sudden inspiration. “What about all the organizing you used to do? The Nationals could use your help. You would be so close to home, and Edinburgh is beautiful! They would throw money at you!” 

Malcolm laughs at his mother’s excitement and gives her a quick squeeze. “I think that reorganizing Scottish politics is a bit beyond my ken, Mam.” But he’s smiling as he puts the pasta on to boil and his voice is lighter as he turns the talk to family and neighborhood gossip.

Keeping Malcolm busy is the key, Isobel decides. She “forces” him to take her all over London. They go to dozens of antique shops where Isobel buys Malcolm a new red glass vase. (You need a spot of color in the house.) He insists on getting her a new set of table linens. (Show up those church hags!) He waits patiently while she selects a new coat, suit and hat “for best.” She waits patiently as he pores through old diaries in an antiquarian bookstore. Isobel has her first latte and pronounces it elegant. Malcolm has to buy a small chest freezer for all the food they make together. 

After a week Malcolm seems much better. His color has gone from chalky to merely pale and he checks his phone no more than ten times a day. His former assistant calls daily to make sure he’s okay, and Malcolm’s tone is teasing and paternal, as if he’s more worried about her than himself. Tony the Formerly Worthless agent calls with offers that are not entirely horrible, and a few nibbles from publishers that have Malcolm thinking.

Then the bad call comes. Julius, Lord Nicholson, is requesting the favor of Malcolm’s presence at a private meeting. Malcolm has talked about Julius before and Isobel has a terrible feeling that he is someone who can undo all her work.

“Have your friend come over here, Malcolm,” she suggests guilelessly. “We have all this lovely salmon. T’would be a shame to waste it.” Malcolm agrees, finding the thought of having Julius on his own turf amusing.

Julius does come over, bringing a moderately expensive bottle of wine. He is charming and complimentary, particularly about the food. They have asparagus soup, roasted salmon with tiny roasted potatoes and peas, and some homemade raspberry gelato and shortbread biscuits for dessert.

“You made all this, Malcolm! I had no idea!” Julius is astonished that Malcolm’s family has a recipe for gelato and listens to Isobel’s account of the Italian side of her family with sincere interest. Julius is so taken with Isobel that he tries to enlist her in his argument. Contrary to Julius’s expectations, Malcolm is resisting his siren call.

“Don’t you agree, Mrs. Tucker, than Malcolm is the man to bring back unity?” he asks, tucking into his third biscuit. 

Isobel pretends not to take it all that seriously. “Perhaps you’re right, but are you the right man for him?” She laughs and glances at Malcolm who is fetching more coffee.

“I suppose bringing Malcolm back would help, not that you deserve him, but he’s had so many offers”…

“I’m thinking of writing a children’s book,” Malcolm comments, deadpan. “It would be about a spider who uses its webs to tear a house down. Heartwarming, don’t you think?”

This isn’t going well, but Julius is nothing if not patient. 

“We’re facing a very tight election,” he continues touching upon Malcolm’s commitment to Labor values, the huge part he could play in the future, the need for all good men, etc. etc.

“You expect to win, then?” Isobel asks, all innocence. “Or do you think Malcolm would be happy in opposition?” Malcolm smothers a laugh, the bastard.

Then there’s a muffled knock at the front door and Malcolm goes to answer it. It’s the kids from down the road selling potted roses for their service club. Malcolm buys one, as always, and is fiddling about with his wallet safely out of hearing range.

“You won’t win,” Isobel confides to Julius with a tight smile. “He’s not going to throw his life away on your lot. I’ll cry if I have to, but you will not get him back.” She locks her round, pale blue eyes on his and Julius realizes that this is where Malcolm gets his bollocking face. Shaken, he raises his coffee cup in her direction.

“It appears that you have the better hand, Mrs. Tucker.”

Malcolm has sent the kids off with cash and a small bag of shortbread.

“How are you two getting on?” he asks, noticing the awkward silence.

“Oh, very well Malcolm. Your mother was just saying that you’re thinking of writing a book. Should I be afraid?”

“Aye, you know what they say: keep a diary and one day it will keep you. I suppose your chapter will depend on what your report says, won’t it?”

Julius would never, ever leak a confidential report, but the involuntary twitch of his hand tells Malcolm he needn’t worry. 

And something in the room changes. Suddenly Julius is talking about his family’s annual fete (You will come, won’t you Malcolm?) and Isobel is describing her new suit and the three weddings she will attend this summer. Malcolm gently plays on Julius’s guilt and enlists him in assuring that “wee Sam” will not suffer for his absence. He talks about maybe getting into public policy, perhaps something like Article 19 or Joseph Rowntree. Isobel lights up at the thought, and Julius is almost encouraging.

When Julius leaves with his own small bag of shortbread (Lovely! Thank you!) Malcolm is joking about charging obscene rates as a consultant. Isobel goes home three days later with the feeling that her boy will be all right.


	2. Dutiful Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm is called home in a hurry.

Malcolm gets no joy from watching Jeremy Paxman eviscerate a piggish traditional marriage advocate, even though the knife cuts are so delicate the victim hasn’t noticed them yet. Since his sacking at the hands of Steve Fucking Fleming he feels like a spent balloon. The rational part of his mind tells him that there’s no need to get desperate yet. He’s saved his money, partly because of early life lessons and partly because he’d had no time to spend it. Without a serious drug or gambling habit, there’s not much a man who works 80 hours with nary a day off can spend his money on; top flight cookware, books, work clothes and shoes, takeout food.

Malcolm tosses his empty carton at the television. He’s had fucking takeout food every meal for three days in a row and is starting to feel like he’s being salt-cured from the inside. The hacks have gone, so he could risk a trip out to buy food. Maybe he could invite Sam over. She’s called every day but their conversations have ended in tears on her side and hollow reassurances on his. 

It’s been three hours. He’s allowed to check his cell phone now. The first night Malcolm actually slept with the damned thing in his hand, so he’s set some ground rules: every three hours in the normal waking hours, only once at night. There are 15 messages, 12 of which are from journalists. Fuck them. One is from his Tony, his agent, one from an unknown number, and one from his sister in Glasgow. 

“Malcolm, call me right away. It’s impor-.”

He’s pressed the call back button before the message ends. His heart races as the phone rings once, twice…

“Malcolm! Thank goodness! Don’t panic.”

“Jesus Bleeding Christ, Sue!”

“I know, I know. Mam had a fall. She’s all right! Let me finish. Mam got knotted up in some idiot’s dog leash and broke her leg. It’s not bad, but she’s at Inverclyde and they say she’ll have to stay for about ten days.”

“Ten days? Isn’t that a bit optimistic for a 76-year-old woman?” Malcolm is pacing in indignation. “Are they trying to cut costs, the evil shites?”

“Listen, Malcolm. She’s getting good care, but she’ll be home in 10 days and she’ll need help. I can come over quite often, of course, but I have Ione and work is crazy and…”

“I have nothing better to do right now. No, don’t apologize, Sue. It’s fine. You do most of the Mamwork now, the least I can do is cover this. Don’t sweat it for a minute. I’ll get wee Sam to stay at my place. She’ll be glad of a chance to be away from her roommates and drink all my booze. It’s no trouble at all.”

“I know you’d come through! It will be lovely to see you, Malcolm. We miss you, you know.”

“Ah, don’t start. Hey, have you already told Mam?”

“Me? Would I do that?” Sue is laughing now, teasing because she knows her big brother will make everything better. She updates him on his five-year-old niece who is already reading and can count to 100 and is waiting eagerly to see her beloved Uncle Malc. 

Malcolm calls Sam who is happy to housesit for however long she’s needed. Her roommates both have new boyfriends and they’re at the most obnoxious stage of courtship. Besides, Malcolm has a huge television and his guest room is twice the size of Sam’s bedroom in the flat.

In less than two hours, Malcolm has packed for his trip, arranged tickets, and summoned a cab. It’s isn’t until he’s on the Super Voyager to Glasgow trying to decide what to read on his Kindle that Malcolm realize he’s gone several hours without checking his messages. He deletes Sue’s message and the (now) two dozen from the harassing press vampires. Tony faffs on about looking for a publisher, but has nothing solid. That leaves only that unknown number – two calls now. 

“Helloooo, Malcolm. This is Julius Nicholson. I realize that we parted on harsher terms than I would have liked when you were, ah, let go. Truth be told, Malcolm, we are on the same side ideologically, soldiers in the same battle, if you will. I have faith that the country’s future will always be more important to you than petty personal matters. Yes. Well, please call me on a matter of mutual interest. This is my personal line, so do call any time. All the best!”

The man must derive sexual gratification from the sound of his own voice, Malcolm mutters in disgust. The anger lasts only a few seconds and is replaced with that familiar, awful tightness in his throat and chest. Nicholson wants something, obviously, and he wouldn’t be calling if he didn’t have something to offer.

Malcolm orders a glass of red wine and the “delicious seasonal meal” which is probably a bit of roast beef with microwaved veg. Around Whitehall it is sometimes assumed that he’s a whiskey drinking pub brawler like all the “Caledonian Mafia.” In truth, most of the Scots who work in the upper echelon are occasional drinkers, hard workers and devoted family men who may celebrate like the world is ending from time to time but never miss a morning meeting. If the English want to believe they risk a pool cue over the skull if they cross one of the boys, well so be it. Malcolm enjoys good wine, and whiskey, and beer, but he’s what Jaime used to call a “fucking scrawny lightweight who swoons at the smell of good alcohol.” 

This isn’t strictly true, but Malcolm prefers to stay in control as much as possible, and after three drinks he become embarrassingly giggly, or embarrassingly sentimental. And if you see him like that, he might have to skin you, tan your hide, and wear it as a vest as a warning to others.

A single glass, along with a surprisingly decent dinner, settles his nerves enough to listen to the second message from His Baldship, The Lord of Fucking Tucker Over.

“Ah, Malcolm, so sorry to disturb you again. I realize that you are no doubt a busy man; offers pouring in an all that! I would appreciate it if you could give me a ring back, though. Things are coming to a head. Interesting times! Call me!”

Malcolm watches the landscape fly by. He watches it until it’s too dark to make anything out but the silhouettes of trees black against blue. Nicholson sounds way too fucking cheerful for someone calling the man he helped turf out of a job. Clearly, Malcolm’s sudden absence and the ascendency of Steve (The Goatsucker) Fleming has caused the rats to scatter, then reform into little groups to bite each other’s arses until a new Rat King emerges. He, Malcolm, could fix that. It would take perhaps two days if he had a decent hand to play.

Malcolm calls Nicholson at what he knows to be the dinner hour for repressed upper-class shitpikes who have their peacock tongues handfed to them every evening. As he’d hoped, the call goes to voicemail after three rings.

“Heeeey, Julius, so sorry to call you while you’re no doubt out sticking it to the first-born sons of your tenants. Listen, mate, I feel your pain but there’s no way I can even think of helping you hold your cock up while I’m still under a dark, Fleming-shaped cloud if you get my drift. Call me in a day or so. Toodle-fuck!”

Malcolm’s heart is pounding. That was his best shot, and it was a good one. He struck just the right note, not a bit desperate.

That night, Malcolm sleeps in his mother’s tidy guest room in two three-hour stretches. It’s the best he’s done in weeks. That said, it will still be hours before he can hit the shops and visit his mother. He stalls over toast and coffee, cleans the kitchen more than thoroughly, and finally fetches the newspaper with the attitude of one about to get a tetanus shot. 

World strife, national strife, political strife and… there, on page four. Nicholson’s report has exonerated not only Malcolm but Steve (Knickersniffer) Fleming. Fuck. Of course Nicholson would play it that way, the bald bag of badger shit.

There’s also an editorial on disarray at Whitehall which is obliquely critical of both the P.M. and Fleming.

It’s tempting to call Nicholson at arse o’clock, but restraint seems to be working out so far. Malcolm shaves carefully to make himself as presentable and healthy-looking as possible; no point in scaring Mam. He takes his mother’s Corsa to the grocery store for provisions (throwing in a Toblerone for Mam) and buys a potted yellow miniature rose and a bagful of historical romances with lavish covers. He thoroughly enjoys flirting with the young lady who sells him the books and promises to pass on her best to Mam, who is a regular.

Isobel Tucker manages to look quite elegant in the hospital bed, with her grey hair put up and the blue bed jacket Sue got her last Christmas around her shoulders. She hugs her son for a long, long time and scolds him for being thin. The rose is pronounced lovely, and Mam breaks off a piece of the Toblerone to eat with her cereal and fruit. “If you can’t have dessert after breakfast in hospital, why bother breaking your leg?”

The leg isn’t too bad after all, and Mam is mostly cheerful if a bit sore. She gives Malcolm strict instructions on the care of the house mostly to avoid the real subject. Finally, they run out of chitchat and Malcolm lays out the whole situation from his painful exit to the news in this morning’s paper. Isobel is furious in her quiet way. If she had Malcolm’s vocabulary, the air would be blue as her jacket. She takes both his hands in hers and looks him steadily in the eyes. Their resemblance is most apparent when they’re both serious. “They have made a mistake, and they will have to live with it. You’re well out of it.”

And as Malcolm drops his eyes and explains that maybe he doesn’t want to be out of it, that maybe he needs this, Isobel holds her son’s hands a bit tighter and tells him to think about it. “Let that Lord Whatshisname cool his heels for a while. Don’t let him rush you. There’s plenty to do here.”

And she’s right. There are dozens of small repairs needed in the house, and he gets through most of them without smashing every fingernail. There are also cheerful visits with Susan and Ben and tiny hellion Ione who is brash, bright, and hilarious. Malcolm visits his mother at least twice a day, bringing treats for Mam and her nurses. Sometimes her friends Betty and Margery are there and the atmosphere is almost festive. Each day, Isobel talks to Malcolm about why he got into politics in the first place. Wearily he explains that he still has his principals; he’s just put them in his pocket for later.

On day four, Malcolm calls off his game of phone-tag with Nicholson, and they actually talk.

“You’re in Glasgow? Well, there’s a daily train, isn’t there? Malcolm, I don’t mind telling you that your absence has unleashed the hounds and it’s all we can do to beat them off if you will. You can’t just turn your back! It would be handing the election to the Tories and they’re even more dreadful than usual.”

“You’ve already fucking handed the Tories the election. You’ve fucking engraved and gift wrapped the fucking election by not fucking listening to me for the past two years!” It hits Malcolm that this is the plain truth. If he goes back to Whitehall now, it will be for another month or two and then he’ll end up holding Dan Miller’s aluminum hand for an interminable sentence in opposition. And that’s the best case scenario. They could do worse than Miller and probably fucking will. A bead of sweat rolls down Malcolm’s back.

“I might add that you have some nerve talking about turning one’s back, you Cueball Judas. I know you were working with Fuckbat Fleming.”

Julius sounds aggrieved. “We’re in a rough business, Malcolm! One can’t go holding personal grudges at a time like this!”

Malcolm pauses, gathering energy for a supreme insult. Then he sighs and the fight goes out of him. “It is personal, but not in the way you mean. Listen, Julius, just fuck off, okay? I mean, good luck to you, and try not to get cannibalized by Fuckface Fleming, but fuck off. I have to go now, for fuck’s sake. The builders are here to make a ramp for my mother.”

He hangs up, leaving Julius Nicholson truly surprised.

Isobel comes home, and as she grows stronger and more surefooted, Malcolm puts on three pounds and gets a bit of faint color in his face. He sleeps longer, smiles more, and stares into space less. Isobel thinks it will be at least two years until her son is truly back.

It doesn’t help that Julius Nicholson calls every day seeking advice, which Malcolm gives. Isobel resents these calls, because while Malcolm steadily refuses to go back to Whitehall – which is falling apart - he’s always a bit listless when Julius rings off.

“What will I do, Mam?” 

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe you’ll write a book. That seems to be what people do these days. Or maybe you could work someplace nice, like Oxfam, or those people who sell goats and trees to help poor families. Nobody with your talents will be at loose ends for long.”

And he rolls his eyes and grins and she swats him with her book for being cheeky. 

“You’ll get better, Malcolm. It will be fine. Aren’t I always right? 

Malcolm kisses his mother’s cheek and heads to the kitchen to check on the lasagna. Sue and family are coming over for his last night in town and Malcolm wants to stuff everyone with good food and drink before he goes home. He promises to start cooking more when he gets back to London. Maybe he’ll buy a tagine cooker. Maybe he’ll start taking walks and read fiction. Maybe he’ll go on a fucking date before it dries up and falls off. 

The doorbell rings, and Malcolm goes to welcome his family, grateful, for the moment, for what he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My head-canon is that Mr. Tucker senior was a physically tough and tireless man, but Malcolm gets his inner steel from his mother.


	3. A Bump in the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A minor accident leads to crazy rumors.

The driver obligingly switches stations and Malcolm allows himself to slump in the corner of the car and relax a bit. What a fucking day. At least Pearson can be trusted to keep his word about tomorrow’s press releases. Silly fucker with his neon helmet and his wee bicycle.

Malcolm doesn’t realize he’s drifted off to sleep until he’s shaken awake by what sounds like cannon fire. 

“Sorry, sir.” The driver pulls over under a light. “Let me just check to see if there’s any damage.”

“What happened?” Malcolm joins the driver and adjusts his scarf against the cold.

“I hit something on the road; bit of metal judging by the scratches. Damn. It’s not too bad, I’ll have to write it up.”

“Not your fault, mate. If anyone gives you shite about it, have them call me, al’ight?” Malcolm stifles a yawn. It’s fucking freezing out here.

They get back on the road but Malcolm can’t sleep. Something about Stewart is bugging him: not the blackmail, or the deal they made. Oh, fuck. Happy fucking birthday. Stewart had given him an odd look… skepticism? Of course, Stewart will probably spend his 50th birthday on a fun run to raise awareness of whale cancer or some such. Pearson has a surprisingly pretty wife and two stolid children. Maybe his wife will make a cake. Maybe he’ll get a tie from his kids.

This is not a good thing to start thinking about at nearly midnight. As the driver pulls up to the house, Malcolm takes out his card and repeats his offer. The driver shakes his hand and drives off.

It’s going to be a white night, he can feel it. Rather than fight insomnia, Malcolm puts on a pot of coffee and goes through his mail, tidying the house as he goes. He heats up a bit of leftover curry and starts working on some strategy memos. Maybe he can get home early tomorrow and catch up on sleep.

He’s at the office at six hours later and everything seems about as fucked up as expected. He emails back and forth with Stewart and they send out simultaneous press releases that make Mannion and Murray look equally foolish. There is a tax reform proposal that needs to be tarted up and three rumors to squelch; nothing too drastic. He’s able to camp out in the office pretty much and gets a shitload of work done. Sam brings in a steady stream of coffee and snacks.

What Malcolm doesn’t realize is that the incident with the car has been blown up out of recognition. According to rumor, the car was totaled, the driver is in hospital, and Malcolm, has a concussion, or a broken arm, or maybe he’s in a coma and that’s why nobody has seen him all day.

Malcolm has sent Sam home and is about to collapse when Cal Richards wheels around the corner like he’s on skates.

“Malcolm!” Richards looks surprised. “There’s a rumor going around that you’re being kept alive by machines in a secret government facility. What the fuck happened?” He grabs Malcolm’s hand and pulls him in for a manhug.

“You been taking the brown acid, Cal? You sound less coherent than usual.”

“Seriously, Malc. I heard you were in a car accident last night… in a stolen car. I would have been genuinely worried if I thought you were mortal.”

Richards gives his unlikely friend a close look. Malcolm is obviously unhurt, but that’s about the best you could say about him. He’s just so… grey: grey hair, grey eyes, grey skin set off by his expensive but slightly baggy grey suit. Hugging him is like hugging a coat rack.

Richards bullies, coaxes, and cajoles Malcolm into having a quick bite out before heading home. “Emily has the kids at her parents, Malc. You’d be doing me a favor!”

As they eat, Richards gives Malcolm shit for looking like “something exhumed”. After the usual vows of secrecy (friendship aside, the two have too much dirt on each other to ever break a confidence) Malcolm explains last night’s adventure.

“So you had a fender bender and decided to give up sleeping? Does that make sense, Malcolm? Or is dying at your desk part of your master plan to win the next election?”

Malcolm doesn’t answer, so Richards talks about his children and the adventures of Malcolm the Rabbit – named because it’s fur is the same color as “Uncle Malc’s” hair.

“How do you fucking do it, Cal? “

Richards doesn’t have to ask what “it” is.

“Emily does most of it,” he answers. “She makes everything work and puts up with me.” He picks up another forkful of rare beef. “Also, Malcolm, I’m married to Emily and not this fucking job. I don’t let it follow me home.”

Malcolm rubs his eyes. “I’ve been awake for 40 fucking hours, and working for 35 of them. I’ll probably have to twat myself with a hammer to get any sleep tonight. What the fuck am I doing?”

“Killing yourself.” Cal shakes his hand at Malcolm to ward off arguments. “Look, Malcolm, my life would be easier if you were to get out of it, given that you’re one of the few nontwat, nonidiots your party has to offer, so there’s that. But – and this is a big but!” Malcolm rolls his eyes as Cal laughs at his overused joke.

“As a friend, I don’t want you to die in office, at least not without having a real life first.”

Richards has finished his dinner and is talking about getting a massive, hideously fattening dessert as consolation for his wife being away. Malcolm declines everything but another glass of wine, having only finished half his fish and pilaf dinner.

“If we win, I’d have to stay.”

Richards says nothing.

“Don’t kid me, Cal. You’d root yourself to Number 10 like a fucking oak tree if your lot of Queen lickers won.”

Cal admits this is the case, but he turns it around. “What would you tell me, Malc, if my job cost me Emily and my health. Would you tell me to just keep at it until everything unfucked itself?”

Malcolm pays the bill (thanks for the psychiatric help, Miss Van Pelt) and Richards gets them a cab each.

Cal and Malcolm have variations of this same conversation over three tennis games until all hell breaks loose as the election is called. Apart from a few rude text messages, they don’t meet until Cal comes over to move his lot into new offices. Malcolm confines his remarks to a rude gesture and a wish for them to all get dysentery. Cal winks when nobody is looking and sends a text.

They meet at the same pub. Malcolm could take over from Boris Karloff as The Mummy at this moment, no makeup needed.

“I’m out,” the older man says as soon as the waiter leaves. “Fuck it. Tom’s floating away in a river of his own shit and Nicola My-Brain-Is-A-Pudding Murray is going up for leader. You didn’t hear that from me.”

“Do you have a plan?” 

“Besides sleeping for a fucking month? Christ, no. That’s a thought. Maybe I’ll join the fucking church; I couldn’t feel any fucking dirtier.”

Actually, there is a bit of a plan. Sam is taken care of as far as work goes. Malcolm arranged an interview with a social policy think tank and Sam blew them away. Together, they’ve packed up Malcolm things as discreetly as possible. Sam will release Malcolm’s resignation as both a letter and a press release Friday morning, as Malcolm is making his way to Scotland by train. He should be halfway to Glasgow before anyone figures out what’s going on.

They dine lightly this time so Cal can get home to Emily and his girls. Malcolm promises to visit them when he gets back from Scotland. 

“Don’t let it eat you, ya wee Fucker.”

“If it starts, you’ll let me know? Before you run off with Emily?”

They do that awkward side hug that men do in public and they part. Malcolm drafts his resignation letter in his head the entire ride home.


	4. Be Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all going so well... then Nicola improvises.

Sometimes it takes more than a light beat of a butterfly’s wing to get a man’s intention. Sometimes it takes a beating strong enough to bring a man down.

It happens in a week that’s going fairly well otherwise. Malcolm has felt under the weather a bit for several days – weeks actually - but the people around him are shockingly bright-eyed and on the ball. Tom is hitting his marks and has displayed almost human warmth in three public interactions. There was a hint of a scandal involving accusations about an immigrant gardener, but the fellow turned out to be an impeccably papered-up refugee who publically defends his MP employer with a tear in his eye. As if these weren’t miracles enough, DoSAC hasn’t fired a thorn at his scrotum for an almost disturbing length of time. 

There’s still time, mind you. This afternoon Nicola Murray is going to announce a micro-lending program which tickles Malcolm’s G-spot; it’s cheap, easy to understand, and almost impossible to argue against. It might also do some good, something that would have been his first priority fifteen years ago. All Nicola has to do is announce it and get her picture taken with the first group of hopeful micro-capitalists, all of whom have been vetted unto the fifth generation.

Sam has set out a bagel sandwich, hot coffee, and two satsumas because she is a wonderful person. It’s all fresh and delicious, but Malcolm only manages to eat a few bites of the sandwich and one of the oranges. His appetite is off, which is nothing unusual, but there’s also this odd heavy, achy feeling in his midsection. Christ, thinks Malcolm, maybe it’s an ulcer starting, or esophagitis. He tells Sam to make an appointment with his doctor. It’s the third time he’s made this request in six months. He missed the last two appointments because of DoSAC’s ongoing campaign to fuck up the entire western hemisphere.

Just a few more hours and he can go home. Malcolm meets his driver and heads off to the south London community center. Nicola is already there looking bright and cheerful in a neat blue suit. Her hair looks great, no slip showing. Ollie gives him a furtive thumbs-up, the wanker. Still, that’s good; it means that Nicola is having one of her “on” days. Malcolm has come to realize that Nicola is not exactly stupid, but she has massive areas of incompetence that become much worse when she’s either excessively flustered or overconfident. Today she just seems like a normal person doing her job.

Malcolm hangs at the edge of the event where he can hear everything without getting into any pictures. He’s been avoiding the camera for a while now, because every time he shows up in the paper or the telly, Mam calls him to ask about his health.

Nicola is going through all her lines: community involvement; independence; training opportunities; broader, more participatory economy. Fuck me, thinks Malcolm, she’s done it. The micro-capitalists (that’s got to be one of Ollie’s) step forward and say a few words apiece about their plans. The five of them range from 25 to 50, men and women of all races. All of them are animated and eager to explain their business plans and the hacks seem to be eating it up.

Malcolm turns to head back to his car and as he’s nearly there, Malcolm hears something. It’s four words from Nicola, then a kind of buzzing in his head. Without looking back Malcolm gets in the car and asks the driver to get him back to the office as soon as possible. 

“You all right, Mr. Tucker?”

“Yeah, fine. Just a bit…. I need to get back.”

I was not hallucinating, he thinks. Nicola Murray definitely uttered the words “golden shower of prosperity.” Back at the office, Malcolm steps into the nearest toilet, which is private thank god, and vomits neatly and completely. He rinses out his mouth and walks out to see Sam’s stricken face. The pain in his torso is much worse, and there’s sweat on his upper lip.

Sam knows what to do. She calls for an ambulance and gives Malcolm two aspirin and a glass of water. While he rests in an easy chair, Sam calls security and arranges for them to both clear the way and protect Malcolm from view. The attendants show up within fifteen minutes, as does Nicola Murray. Having come with her defenses up and ready for a bollocking, Nicola is stunned at the sight of Malcolm, tie off and collar loosened, being lifted on to a gurney.

“Come to see your handiwork?” he yells as the medics gently push him back down. Her mouth opens in silent protest as he’s hauled off.

Any middle-aged man who shows up in a hospital with severe chest pain gets quick, thorough treatment. Several hours of being prodded, syringed and scanned show that Malcolm has not, as everything assumed, had a heart attack. It’s something called pericarditis inflammation and is probably a result of the viral infection he’s been ignoring for weeks. He’s given anti-inflammatory pills and a list of what he can take for the pain. The doctor also orders him to absolutely rest at home for a full week, and that means not working from home either. He also gets a lecture on high blood pressure, stress, and sleep and is turned over to Sam who had been waiting for him all day.

There are 37 messages on his Blackberry. He calls his mother and the P.M. and turns it over to Sam who promises to deal with everyone else. He gives her instructions on who will take on the most vital of his responsibilities and allows her to walk him right to his hotel room. Sam made reservations as soon as she knew that Malcolm would not stay in the hospital overnight. The room is quiet and discreet. Malcolm kicks off his shoes and turns on the television and ends up falling asleep with the sound blaring.

Sam returns a few hours later with a few necessities – clothes, e-reader, shaver, slippers. She hangs around for a dinner and they watch the news together. His illness has made the news, but not in a way that’s likely to embarrass anyone. Nicola’s gaffe has miraculously disappeared, a one-day wonder.

“The line is that anyone who pulls focus from the micro-capitalists is unserious and maybe even racist,” Sam tells him. “Also, why would a respectable married woman even know that particular reference?”

“You thought of that?” 

She smiles assent and Malcolm feels a surge of pride. When she leaves to meet a new boyfriend for a drink, it occurs to him that she has come a long way in the last ten years. Maybe he’s taught her all he can.

Two days of rest leave Malcolm bored enough to chew his own feet off. Getting to his doctor’s appointment is almost a relief, even thought he has a physical that really should have been preceded by dinner, or at least a bit of snogging. He’s in decent shape, all things considered, but Dr. Navarre is not pleased with his blood pressure and predicts dire things about his cholesterol results.

Malcolm packs up his things and goes home to finish recuperating. The pain has calmed down considerably and he’s getting by on a few OTC pills a day. He would go in to work now except Sam has promised to have him physically removed if he shows his face.

Being forced to just think about things is hard on a person like Malcolm, but he does it. He thinks, he takes stock, and he makes many, many calls. Sam visits daily. Nicola Murray visits once, bringing a massive basket of fruit. Malcolm comes pretty close to taking back what he said about blaming her for his illness, which is quite enough for Nicola.

And on Monday everyone notices right away that Malcolm seems quieter and more genial. By Wednesday morning everyone is horrified to discover that Malcolm has stopped threatening people and is getting them sacked, for real. He’s developed the habit of simply raising his eyebrows and making a note when people fuck up. An editor who suggests that Tom is unfit to lead for medical reasons finds his own self-medicating habits all over a rival paper. An opposition MP who compares Nicola to a sad, blind sheepdog falls into a financial scandal the very next day. Malcolm didn’t even give a warning rattle, and he refuses to take credit.

“Jesus Christ. He’s worse now,” Ollie mutters in disbelief.

“I think that sweary shouting stuff was a way to keep from actually losing his temper,” Glenn replies. “God help us all.”

The election goes better than expected, but they still lose as Malcolm realized they would while he was sitting alone at home. The coalition that comes out of it is fragile and Labour will live to fight another day. They’ll fight without Malcolm. He resigns the day after Tom steps down and is heralded as a loyal soldier by a press corps scared shitless about what he might still have in his files.


	5. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In any case, Malcolm resigns for good.

A few years later, Malcolm has not one, but two books out. Both have made Malcolm a great deal of money and, more surprisingly, earned a great deal of praise. The first book was a “brutal and eye-opening look at how politics really work.” The second was a “thoughtful and compelling analysis of what needs to change in our body politic.” Malcolm tours the more serious chat shows and even guest lectures at universities from time to time. He finds he doesn’t really have to do a damned thing unless he wants to.

Between the first and the second book, Malcolm walks Sam down the aisle as she finally agrees to marry her boyfriend. The people who assumed the two of them were shagging are astonished to see Malcolm hug the groom and plant a chaste kiss on Sam’s forehead.

At the launch of his second book, a very pregnant Sam introduces Malcolm to her Auntie Sarah, the still stunning widowed sister of Sam’s mum. Malcolm and Sarah end up sharing a bottle of wine and a bed that night. Six months later they’re consolidating their enormous book and music collections as they pack up to move into the new house they will share.

When Sarah’s two sons have children, “Grampa Malc” is there for them. He is godfather to Sam’s twins, and the most involved uncle he can be. The kids love him, especially on days when they all get into huge trouble together. Sarah’s only complaints about her husband are that he tends to lose track of time while engrossed in his writing, and his cooking experiments something get out of hand. For his part, Malcolm has no complaints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story hasn't been Brit-picked or checked by another writer. I'm not really part of the Thick of It fandom, but if anyone who is would like to offer suggestions, I'd welcome them.

**Author's Note:**

> The ending of The Thick of It was incredibly depressing and just plain wrong.


End file.
